


5 Steps Forward

by bakers_impala221



Series: Codas [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Dean Winchester-centric, Death, Destiel - Freeform, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Love, M/M, Repression, canon-divergent, s13e1, season 13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24522454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: Dean kept his eyes fixed firmly in front of him, stared hard and cold at the white-plastered wallSam seemed unsettled, shifting nervously. This was out of his depth. They both knew that. Dean refused to yield, ignoring the thin snake of guilt sliver its way into his gut.‘I know that it’s hard, but we have to leave eventually,’ Sam continued. ‘And you know what that means.’Dean suppressed the urge to swallow. He stood like a soldier, rigid and unbreakable. Sam sighed.‘Dean, he’s dead.’*Cas is dead. Dean grieves.(Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Codas [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756792
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	5 Steps Forward

**Author's Note:**

> 'The five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance are a part of the framework that makes up our learning to live with the ones we lost.' -Elizabeth Kübler-Ross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stage 1.  
> ‘Denial is the shock absorber for the soul. It protects us until we are equipped to cope with reality.’ C.S. Lewis

Dean glanced out the front door, at the front step. Sam sat mindfully with the kid, quiet voices barely making it down the hall. Dean pulled his gaze away sharply, wincing like he’d been burned.

He trained his eyes on the ground, the old floorboards, on one in particular with its edges rotting away. Dean furrowed his brows, wondering vaguely in the back of his mind if Cas had ever noticed the oldness of the building; ever frowned at the thought of raising a child here on his own.

Dean sniffed, catching himself. He leaned forward, dropped his arm until his hand met the cold wood. His fingers brushed the floor absent-mindedly.

The shuffling sounds of movement broke through his thoughts. Dean looked up quickly as Sam walked down the hallway, feet thudding against the wooden planks ungracefully, kid in tow. Dean forced his eyes out the window, could see the smaller figure in his peripheral, emerging quietly as a background shadow from behind the wall of muscle and kind gentleness. He’d be damned if sympathy were going all the way ‘round this table. Sympathy was a dangerous game; Dean knew that. Clearly Sam still didn’t.

Sam cleared his throat, seeming apprehensive.

‘I’m gonna take Jack out for a ride,’ he said eventually. He hovered uncomfortably in the doorway for a moment, hesitating. ‘Do you wanna come with?’ he asked finally.

Dean shook his head, carefully not moving his eyes away from the dark outline of the blowing trees. It looked cold outside; the fogginess in the air reflected the heaviness in the room. It was like gazing through a mirror.

‘I’m just gonna sit here. Stand guard,’ Dean said, excuse thinly veiled. It was a half-hearted lie, he knew, but he didn’t have the strength in him for more than that.

‘Don’t know what kind of monsters hang around these woods.’ He faked a smile, finally moved his gaze, placed it determinedly on his brother’s face.

Sam seemed hesitant still. Apparently whatever test which had stood before him, Dean had uncertainly failed. Dean suppressed a shiver as Sam’s gaze wandered behind his back, to a place his eyes couldn't reach. That part… that conversation was not one he was willing to have. Not yet. Not while the wounds were still open, and the rain hadn’t washed away the blood still clinging to the dirt.

Dean swallowed, lifting his errant eyes back up to meet his brother’s. Sam had that open-yet-reserved look about him, the kind that said too much about sympathy; about the heavy knowledge of that unspoken _thing_ lurking in the air, stamping its feet in slow-motion as it hovered between them. Dean resisted the urge to look away, instead kept his eyes glued to the creases in Sam’s face. Dean found himself hyper-aware of the weariness there; his eyes looked far too worn out to meet his age, proof that they’d both lived a thousand lifetimes too many.

Sam ended up breaking the contest, leaving the test unanswered and unclear, and turning around to usher the kid outside. Dean listened to the low purring of the Impala, the screech it made as the wheels turned against the gravel, and her quickened pace as she galloped out the driveway, leaving Dean behind, an empty shell of silent grief.

When he finally stood from the small stool he’d found strewn somewhere behind the sofa, his thighs and butt ached from sitting. Not stretching much more than a little leaning to each side, he walked over to the window, not looking around the house; not eyeing that heavy air which weighed on him like a magnet pulling him down, tugging at him from beneath his feet.

He stayed silent, the echoing click of hard soles against wooden planks fading from his mind, dissolving into the dark.

By the time Baby finally pulled back into the drive, he still hadn’t moved. Before he could be disturbed by some kind of pity or consolation, he retreated swiftly from the room. He made his way up the staircase, feet trudging along the old, creaking steps until he ascended, then he made his way down the hall, eyeing each room as he went along.

The first door he opened led to a large space with a double bed, a big and clear bedroom. Kelly’s corpse had left an indent in the sheets after Sam had picked it up; carried it down the stairs, limp arms hanging from her sides, and bulging, empty belly. Dean closed the door slowly.

His stomach clenched when the room next door revealed a painted wall. A childish rainbow reciting the alphabet stretched across the plaster, looking out of place in the dereliction. An unmade crib lay abandoned in the corner. Dean scanned the room slowly. It was the same one they’d first found the damned kid in right after birth, when the rip had closed. The bullets were still wedged into tiny holes in the wall. Dean turned away, pulled the door shut behind him.

Next room was a small bathroom, a little old, but perfectly intact. Dean ignored it, turning to open the next door. The room was small, a mix of beige and light brown, splashed together in a simple, put-together look. The white bedsheets were crisp, looked unused, but the curtains were open by a crack, and from Dean’s limited view, he could see a lake sparkling a little in the steady moonlight. He chest tightened uncomfortably as he made his way inside, closing the door behind him and locking it, shutting out the rest of the world.

He walked over to the bed, reached out to feel the fixed sheets slide under his palms. He shifted over to the nightstand, picked up the phone and clicked it on. It flashed the picture of a red, empty battery; a warning sign. Dean leaned to the side, scanning the room for a plug port. Not finding one, he set the phone back on the table and climbed under the sheets, kicking his boots off as he went.

The room was silent. It left room for the soft whistling of wind to float in through the gaps in the window frame, and the cracks in the wall. He listened to it calmly; latched on to the soothing music, neutral and untethered, but tame. His mind lifted from his body, hovered in the air above the bed in the dark quiet. He didn’t breathe, held his breath and felt the pressure build in his chest, distant and unattached. A minute passed. Then two. His lungs burned; an arm rose within his throat, grasping for oxygen.

He opened his mouth—his _body_ opened its mouth. He gasped for air, hyperventilating, and gulping it down in mouthfuls on instinct, body in autopilot. He felt slightly fuzzy, detached and disconnected from himself.

When his breathing evened out, waves of calmness washed over and into him. He floated up into the corners of the room where the walls met the ceiling in sharp turns, melted into the shadows and fell asleep.

Cool light seeped in through the curtains and splayed out on the closet door where it hung ajar. Dean’s head was hazy. Unclear thoughts circled until one thought-line landed and settled. The others evaporated into the crisp air.

Dean heaved himself up, fished his phone out of his pocket and blinked at it, clearing his eyes. He squinted into the light, eyes scanning the clear white numbers ‘ **5:56a.m.** ’ He huffed, moving to stand up to make his way around the bed, across the room.

He lifted the tip of the curtain with his fingers, gazed outside. The lake shimmered against the sunrise. A few empty-sounding birdsongs pierced the cloudy air. He stayed stood by the window, watching the sun climb through the atmosphere until the world was saturated back to colour and life was resumed.

Dean acknowledged Sam with a nod of his head. He glanced out the kitchen window, then up to the broken clock, frozen at ten o’clock; trapped perpetually in deep coma, unseeing and unconscious of time. Sam nodded back, eyes wary and pitiful. Dean suppressed a shiver, turning his back against the light.

‘Want a sandwich?’ Sam asked.

Dean considered it for a moment, caught between submitting to Sam’s worry, or the queasiness in his gut.

‘Yeah,’ he decided, silently willing his stomach to blow back up into shape, to quit squirming. He stared absently at the worn floorboards until a voice tugged him back into life.

‘Dean?’

‘Yeah,’ Dean said quickly, turning his face and seeing the plate held out to him. He took it without another word.

Sam moved around the bench, leaning up against it by his brother’s side. They ate in silence. Dean purposely ignored the uncomfortable buzz in the air between them.

Once he’d finished the plate of food, Sam cleared his throat purposefully, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

‘The, uh-’ He stopped, trailing off and searching for words.

Dean could see his face turn out of his peripheral, his eyes training on the table.

Sam coughed again. ‘We, uh,’ he retried. ‘You know we have to move them out eventually.’

Dean kept his eyes fixed firmly in front of him, stared hard and cold at the white-plastered wall.

Sam seemed unsettled, shifting nervously. This was out of his depth. They both knew that. Dean refused to yield, ignoring the thin snake of guilt sliver its way into his gut.

‘I know that it’s hard, but we have to leave eventually,’ Sam continued. ‘And you know what that means.’

Dean suppressed the urge to swallow. He stood like a soldier, rigid and unbreakable. Sam sighed.

‘Dean, he’s dead.’

Dean nearly choked; felt his throat seize up. There was a noose around his neck, and he was falling on it. Sam stood by and waited, gauging for a response. Dean’s throat burned with the pain of it.

He struggled for words, for an escape route to flee. His mind came up empty.

‘I’ll be in my room,’ he said eventually, heading for the exit without looking back. He trudged his way up the stairs to the room he’d assumed. Were time not linear, he could pretend that they’d shared it; pretend there wasn't nowhere left for him to go.

But the silence of the room engulfed him, and the water shimmered out of the corner of his eye. He squeezed his eyes shut to escape it.

‘I’m fine.’

_I’m fine._

It didn't matter.

Sam had found them a case, and a few hours later they’d piled into the Impala and driven off to some small, nearby town.

Dean didn’t greet the sheriff, just walked straight past her, leaving Sam behind with his charming smile and pointed looks.

The victim was dead, mutilated in the park. Her girlfriend, Lauren, found unconscious in a dark alley a few blocks over, covered in blood. When she came-to a few hours later, they were already there. Dean left Sam to the questions, just watched wordlessly as the kid sobbed down a spiral of hopelessness and defeat. She recounted her story, and Dean barely listened. A sharp pang sliced through his gut when she broke down. A nurse came in shortly after, sternly told the two of them to leave.

Sam was sympathetic. Dean didn’t comment. There were more important things to address, all of which he distinctly hadn’t. He wasn’t breaking the damn cycle now.

Then Sam suggested they take the kid. Dean had to comment. His fury bubbled up inside him, grew into the roaring beast once more.

‘What the _hell_ , man?’ he yelled from the corner of the parking lot. A lot of faces turned. Dean pointedly ignored them.

Like _hell_ he was apologising.

Sam glanced around sheepishly on their behalf.

‘Dean-’ Sam tried, his voice calm with a tinge of impatience.

‘No,’ Dean cut him off. ‘This is going too far. The only reason he’s even _alive_ right now is because we don’t know how to change that. So don’t go messing it all up in your head and getting us killed with your damn sympathy, man. Get over it. The kid’s fucking evil; he is _literally_ the devil’s son. The sooner you realise that the better off we’ll all be.’

Dean stomped away from Sam’s protesting calls. His stomach lurched in revulsion as he approached the car, innocent, young face peeking up at him. He had half a mind to walk away entirely, but thinking of Baby, he opted for ignoring the back seat instead. Sam walked towards them slowly and Dean started the car, pulling out violently, wheels screeching on the road.

‘Woah, woah,’ Sam called.

Dean pulled up in front of him, engine roaring threateningly. ‘ _Get in,’_ it said. And he did.

They were back at the hotel when Sam had gotten the call. He hung up, face pulled into a frown, and eyes downcast. His eyes were glassy, doleful, when he looked up.

‘What’s up?’ Dean paused from sharpening his knife, arms frozen mid-swipe.

Sam huffed sadly.

‘Lauren’s dead.’

It wasn’t yet dark out, so they piled into the Impala, the kid’s innocent face shining from the backseat once Sam convinced Dean to let him come along for the ride.

When they pulled up at the hospital, Dean turned in the car. His eyes bore sharply into Jack’s, and he pointed at him threateningly. ‘You don’t leave this car, you hear?’

Jack’s face fell slightly. If he hadn’t been so attuned in reading people, trained from a young age, Dean might have missed it. Stuff like that came with the profession; the life. He ignored it anyway.

Smiling brightly, Jack nodded. ‘I understand. I won’t leave the car until you tell me to.’

Dean gave him a look just as Sam started protesting from beside him.

Dean silenced him with a glare, then got out of the car, shaking it violently as he stood.

‘Kid’s gotta learn how to take orders, Sammy.’ Dean smiled at him over the nickname, but there was no kindness in it; just the cold, malice voice of irony.

Sam seemed unphased by the sardonic slight, only struck mute with impatient disgust.

The doctor told them it was a suicide; that she’d stolen a scalpel from a trolley left by one of the nurses. Sam dropped by the morgue to check it out while Dean wandered the halls looking for anything suspicious.

He didn’t find anything, and when Sam came back, he looked unusually distressed. Walking down the hallway, he huffed a painful sigh. When Sam looked up and saw him, his features evened out, professionally detached. Dean frowned but didn’t say anything. When they were within speaking distance, Sam cleared his throat.

‘It didn’t look like claw marks, Dean.’ He frowned, eyes downcast as he remembered it.

‘It doesn’t look like anything strange’s been going on here, either,’ Dean remarked, glancing down the pristine hallways. ‘No sulfur, no EMF, no marks or hair. No nothing.’

Sam nodded, brows still subtly downturned.

‘So real suicide, then?’ Dean asked, glancing away. He fixed his eyes on the main doors, watched the seemingly still silhouettes of the trees outside through the glass.

Sam nodded sombrely. ‘Real suicide,’ he agreed, voice quiet.

When they tracked down the beast, it ended up being a serial-killing werewolf with no real agender; just a taste for mutilating kills.

Dean expected Sam to be thrilled, but instead he just looked lost. Dean was the one who ended up killing her, improvising with an axe to the head. It seemed to do the job, and they cleaned up the body, dumping it in a half-assed burial, burned for good measure.

When they were packing up to leave, Jack was waiting in the car with a smile. Dean saw him from the window, fought the strong urge to be sick.

Sam walked over to the hotel table, grabbing Dean’s attention.

‘Hey, uh- You okay?’

Dean’s eyes scanned the skyline, not really seeing it.

‘Yeah,’ he said, voice gruff. ‘You?’

Sam hesitated, weighing his options.

‘I keep thinking about that girl.’

Dean resisted the instinct to snap his head up and face his brother, then tampered down the succeeding urge to run.

‘Yeah.’ He swallowed down the bile in his throat.

 _It shouldn’t matter_ , a voice whispered forcefully in the back of his mind. He cleared it away, refocused on the room.

‘Dean…’ Sam started, then stopped. He trailed off, lost for words.

When he didn’t say anything more, Dean gave him an empty grin and left the room. When Sam joined him in the car, they set off, and Dean was relieved to put as much distance between him and that town as possible.

When they arrived back at the house, Dean left his bag purposefully in the trunk, marching straight inside. Sam and Jack hung back, and Dean closed the front door behind him.

He hovered under the doorframe, the door swung all the way open, a permanent, spacey fixture. Dean looked over to the table; forced his eyes up to the corpse wrapped in a sheet.

He walked over slowly, stood by the window. He reached for the cloth, tossed it back to reveal his face. Dean’s breath caught in his throat, the air slowly expanding in his chest.

Cas’ face was drained, slack. His eyes were closed, but it didn’t look like sleeping; didn’t have that peaceful air or subtle twitch of expression.

He looked like death. The real kind, not personification; the unmoving body marked by death, permanently stained. Dean looked out the window, at the dark ground where charcoal wings had burned into the grass. He closed his eyes; willed it all away.

_He's not-_

_He's not..._

Dean opened his eyes.

_He was._

He turned away, stared down at the floor, willed his body into quiet calm.

When he looked back down at the body, he sniffed dryly. That numb, distant feeling washed out of him, pouring away into the floorboards, dripping down between the cracks. He didn’t try to grab at it; it was too late. Too late once he’d stared hard at the face too empty, too lifeless, _too gone_ , to be saved.

Pain stabbed at him. It left him raw and empty, and exhausted.

Fishing through his jacket, he pulled the extra cell from his pocket, felt its weight lift as he pulled it away. He sighed, tucked the phone in the khaki trenchcoat, returning it to its place.

He paused, staring down at the discoloured face, heart squeezing in his chest. He felt desolate, lost, like he’d just opened his eyes, looked around and discovered he was alone in the middle of the ocean. Keeping his hands firmly by his side, he took a breath. With his exhale, Dean lifted the sheet and dropped it back into place, veiling his face for the last time. He turned away, face set like stone, and tore down the old, flimsy curtains from the rod.


End file.
